


Pariter

by nimiumcaelo



Category: Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Bruises, Deleted Scenes, Domestic, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Massage, Running Errands, set during "Psmith in the City"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 07:12:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14689107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimiumcaelo/pseuds/nimiumcaelo
Summary: pariter: (adv.) together, equally [Latin]





	Pariter

When Psmith returned, Mike was still out. He had left a short note on the side table. It read, “Getting eggs. Back soon.” Psmith read the note, then returned it to its place. He arranged himself gracefully in an armchair and began a long train of thought on Life.

About a half-hour later, the door opened, admitting Mike.

“Ah,” Psmith said, rising. “Finally, you return.”

Mike went into the kitchen and put the eggs away. “Yes, sorry. There was a long queue.”

“It is no matter. I have every faith and confidence in you, Comrade Jackson, and do not fear when you are out longer than you say. The only thought that crosses the mind of Psmith is, ‘When shall Comrade Jackson return? I do miss him terribly. I ache, I mourn. I pine for the moment when his noble visage shall appear across the threshold.’ And now you have returned. The period of mourning is over. Psmith returns the black veil to the closet and dusts off his merry-making togs. Ah, but you are rather damp around the edges, Comrade Jackson. Was it raining, or did you make a detour to jump into the river?”

Psmith wandered over and brushed Mike’s wet hair off his forehead.

“Oh, it was only drizzling. Nothing much.” He leaned up and pecked Psmith on the cheek. “How did your visit to the club go? Has Bickersdyke given in yet?”

Psmith sighed and let Mike lead them into the sitting room. “No. Unfortunately, Comrade Bickersdyke was not present tonight. I asked at the door and one of the waiters said he had overheard Comrade B. talking about some dinner engagement with a friend of his. Hearing this news, I wilted somewhat, yet remained confident. A man is allowed to have dinner engagements every so often. It is not unheard of. Certainly, Comrade Bickersdyke shall return to the club tomorrow night and I shall catch him then.”

“Yes, he doesn’t seem much like the type to go out with chums each night. I suppose you didn’t stay long, then? I must have just missed you, going out.”

“A regrettable circumstance.” Psmith collected the newspaper. “And nothing of interest in the football world. I feel positively set adrift, Comrade Jackson. None of my occupations have any need of me at present.”

Mike leaned his head on Psmith’s shoulder. “What about that serial in the paper? Has the cousin gotten married yet?”

Psmith flipped several pages. “I do not believe so, though I should probably ‘read to find out,’ as is advised. Would you care to hear the latest installment, Comrade?”

“Yes, alright, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Psmith said graciously. “So it begins…”

 

~

 

Mike awoke, in Psmith’s bedroom, at the sound of Psmith’s deep, miserable groan. Mike popped an eye open and looked about. Psmith was standing before the looking glass, prodding lightly at the bruise on his brow and grimacing. Yesterday, the mark had been faint and purplish, but it had now deepened to a violent bluish color that was difficult to ignore.

Psmith groaned again.

“Don’t poke at it so,” Mike admonished. His voice was vaguely croaky from sleep. “You’ll make it worse.”

Psmith turned about, startled. “Oh, Comrade Jackson, I do apologize. I had not thought I would wake you. In a flight of misery, I let common courtesy go. Terribly sorry. Do go back to sleep. There is no need for you to arise for,” Psmith pulled his pocket-watch out of the pocket of his blue pajamas and checked the time, “nearly an hour. You may return to your beauty sleep and I shall remedy this misfortune _in_ _solitudine_.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Mike said, pushing the covers back. “I’m already awake. No sense in going back to sleep now. What’s the matter? The bruise?”

Psmith regarded himself in the looking glass once more. “You have hit the matter on the head. The discoloration of my porcelain countenance is what has darkened this otherwise sunny morning. I shall now be unable to show myself in polite society without heads turning and gasps being uttered breezily by mothers, turning their children away. I shall be, in short, shunned.”

Mike came up next to Psmith. “Here,” he said, turning Psmith’s face towards his by the chin. “It’s not so bad. Do you still have that powder stuff? You could use that.”

“So I had thought. Unfortunately, I used the last of it several weeks ago. There is now no more.”

“I could get some for you. Where do they sell it? A druggists?”

Psmith’s mournful expression lightened somewhat.  “ That, or the closest general store. I believe there is one two blocks down by the nasty crack in the pavement.”

“Alright,” said Mike. “Well, give me a quarter of an hour or so and I’ll get some for you.”

Psmith’s expression lifted into a little smile. “Thank you, Comrade. The gesture is appreciated without end.”

“Of course.” Mike patted Psmith on the arm, then turned and began changing into the standard attire of the smart young man in London.

It did not take him long to locate the druggists, as he and Psmith—as well as all the other pedestrians in the area—were very familiar with the nasty crack in the pavement at that intersection. It caused a sharp wrinkle in the otherwise smooth path and made many an unsuspecting ankle to turn uncomfortably. Mike passed over it with care before pushing the druggist’s door open, a tiny bell jingling to announce his entrance.

The chemist was an older man with a powerful mustache. He looked up  at Mike’s arrival and cleared his throat in a manner reminiscent of two rocks grating against each other at the bottom of the ocean.

“Good morning,” he rumbled. “What can I help you with?”

“Good morning,” Mike said. “Do you have any face powder? The sort for girls to wear?”

The chemist raised a dark eyebrow and gave Mike a knowing look. “Indeed I do. Will you be wanting the rouge or the white?”

“Er, the white stuff, thanks.”

The chemist reached under the counter and pulled out a small circular container. “That’ll be 10 pence.”

Mike placed the coin on the counter and took the powder. “Thank you.”

The chemist nodded. “Good day.”

When Mike returned to the flat, Psmith had draped himself unhappily across the bed, still in his sky-blue pajamas. He glanced over when Mike walked in.

“I got the powder,” Mike said. “Here, sit up. I’ll put it on.”

Psmith sat up, Mike standing before him. “Do be careful not to get it in my eye. It stings like the  proverbial  adder.”

“I’ll be careful, don’t worry.” Mike popped the container open and picked up the little round pad.

He tilted Psmith’s face up and  applied powder to the pad .  Psmith was quiet and still as Mike daubed  at his brow. Once the mark was covered to Mike’s satisfaction, he pulled back a bit and handed Psmith the looking glass.

“I think it’s covered alright. Tell me if you want more.”

Psmith examined himself from multiple angles in the glass. “No,” he said after a moment. “I believe this is done admirably. Thank you ever so much, Comrade Jackson. You have, as they say, saved my bacon.”

Mike put the pad back in the container and closed it, setting it aside on the top of the bureau. “Good. Now, how about some breakfast?”

 

~

 

“Good Lord,” Mike moaned. “I’m stiff.” He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck experimentally.

Psmith set the newspaper aside. “Has the constant strain of bending over that desk gotten to you finally, Comrade?”

“I believe so.” He winced. “My shoulders are jolly tight.”

“Then come,” Psmith said. “And sit. I shall remedy the situation.”

Mike sat before Psmith, who started pressing his long fingers into the sore muscles in Mike’s back. Mike dipped his head and sighed blissfully.

“That’s dashed good, Psmith,” he moaned. “If you could go just a bit to the left?”

Psmith obliged. He was no stranger to the burden of kinked muscles and was as graceful and considerate in his kneading as he was in everything else. Mike soon felt himself turn jelly-like and involuntarily hummed with satisfaction.

“Thanks awfully,” he said when Psmith had finished. “I feel much better. Here, do you want one?”

Psmith turned and offered up his silk-clad back. “If it’s all the same to you.”

Mike set to work. Unlike Psmith, who primarily took use of his knuckles whilst  massaging , Mike preferred to use the thumbs. He pressed all along Psmith’s wide shoulder-blades and along both sides of his spine. Psmith  smiled dreamily off into the middle distance.

“I should ask you to do this more often, Comrade,” he said. “The effect is most pleasant.”

“I wouldn’t mind.” Mike bent and pressed a kiss to the back of Psmith’s neck.

“Then perhaps I shall make the request tonight.”

**Author's Note:**

> wow they are slowly taking over every other ship in my mind  
> also holy cow i was not prepared for all the domesticity in "Psmith in the City" wowie zowie  
> hmu with prompts [here](https://ask.fm/nimiumcaelo)  
> \- M  
> P.S. this might get additional chapters in future idk


End file.
